


Exchanges

by erde



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BuckyNat Secret Santa, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluffy Ending, Introspection, Minor Violence, Mission Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:23:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erde/pseuds/erde
Summary: On a whim, he thinks of the sacrifices he would have made for her if only the universe had let him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rootted](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rootted).



It's not so much that he can't withstand the silence, it's that disrupting it feels good, that's all. That's why he does things like letting the television on even though no one's watching, shadows flickering on the walls, the illusion of company. That's also why he, as he lies in waiting, keeps his mind busy and the furthest from quiet by putting a new spin to some theory he came across earlier: trade-offs on a cosmic level.

The idea is laughable. Striking a deal with fate or what have you assumes that you get a say at all, when everybody knows that the truth is different. Namely, that the universe doesn't give a shit about you, to put it mildly. The reminder is carved into his body, rugged tissue molding into metal in a way that's pretty fucking difficult to miss even if you don't know who you are.

Bucky knows who he is, these days. He didn't always know.

There are still leftovers from that time, glimpses of a life that isn't quite his own but whose reminder sends a shiver down his spine all the same. The sensation is there like a phantom limb, the single-minded focus, eyes locked in on his target while everything else turns into white noise, a sea of details reduced to nothing. No room for memories or the odd thought about how hungry, thirsty or tired he might have been, no thought spared for the fact that he was, after all, human. None of that existed, just a list of hard cold facts and a mission to undertake, and then another and another.

To make up for it, he fills the gaps with random trivia. Here's a collection of kitschy, colorful things that, while not useful, cast a semblance of normalcy on the splinters and scraps of memories he does keep. Pop culture tidbits, lines from books and films and Hot 100 songs, the kind of things that an average person accumulates over the course of well-lived life.

He also likes to comb the web for odd things, the kind that makes Steve look over his shoulder and say with a chuckle, _The things you find, Buck._ Bucky gives him an affectionate smirk, calls him punk. Natasha, her knuckles soft against the back of his hand, finds it amusing.

So today's oddity is trade-offs.

"Got your eye on the prize, I take," Natasha says over the comms.

Bucky adjusts the scope. "Got it."

Below, in the building next door, there's a flurry of movement. The bastards are so worried about making the delivery in time and getting their hard cash, that they don't see him lurking in the darkness. While they're supposed to nab as many of them as possible, they're actually waiting for HYDRA goons to appear, so that's exactly what they do. They wait, though not for long.

Something changes. There comes to a point when he and Natasha are forced to improvise, which in their case just means plan B. They are always ready for contingencies. There's hard-earned knowledge behind every quick reaction, things that were beaten into them until it all became second nature. If it hadn't been like that—

Natasha is on the move. She's there before anyone can hear her drawing near, jumping straight into the middle of everything. Her movements have a ruthless beauty to them, both tough and graceful. She's wrecking them all.

There's someone on her blind spot. Because he knows her well enough to know when she needs a hand, he goes ahead this time. He does the math in a matter of seconds, aims, shoots. Usually nowhere fatal unless the situation calls for it. He's one of the good guys now.

She speaks, a smoky whisper in his ear that makes his stomach flutter. "Thanks."

"Your eye in the sky," he says with a smile, hooking a rope a couple of floors above. A broken window later and he's there, no welcome committee on the other side.

"This can't be it," she tells him. He sees glimpses of her through holes in the walls, keepsakes from another time. His boots pick up dust and splinters of concrete. It must have looked like this for years, but there are places that peace deserts for good. People, too, are left behind. Both of them know this first-hand.

"There's nothing here," he says low, walking into a platform from where he can see her clearly. It's cold but the sun is shining, casting a pale glow through the large hole on the roof. He's on the lookout for shadows other than hers, but there's only Natasha treading over puddles of melted snow like a child might.

For a moment he imagines her young and bright-eyed in a different world than theirs, somewhere where everything is soft and safe. There are cookies and milk after ballet practice, dolls and toy guns on her birthday and on Christmas, a warm bed. What sacrifices would have been needed for that to be true?

He wonders how many more years of him being inside of a chamber would have bought her freedom, a year kept in the ice for every day the sun got to touch her face. It doesn't work like that, he knows, but if all those years had been good for something, if they had tipped the scales in her favor, somehow, then at least all of it would have been worth it.

"There's only rust," she says, and then, "Wait."

"Yeah, heads up," he says. There are reinforcements coming through the roof. Something more than simple smugglers, then.

Before he joins her, he takes a few out of commission. It's a long way down, but nothing he can't take, and once they're side by side, they become unstoppable. How could they not? They're on the same wavelength.

He lifts her up so that she reaches the ropes, and while she climbs, he deflects bullets with his left arm, disarms one with a knife, shoots another in the kneecap. She swings to gather momentum and kicks two in the face, then steals their guns. When she opens fire, she's hanging upside down, her legs wrapped around the ropes.

Sam has recorded him looking at her before. He knows he looks like an idiot, and while there's no time for that right now, he still admires her, the elegance of her steps, her strength. By the time she lands, she's taken care of half of them. He deals with the rest.

Natasha puts her hands around her hips. "I hope the cleanup crew doesn't take much longer."

"They'll get there in five, ready to lock everybody up," Sam says, miles and miles away from where they are. " _If_ there's anybody left alive to lock up."

She smirks. "Sure."

"There might be some still kicking," Bucky says with a shrug, and both the lightheartedness and the feeling of belonging are familiar.

 _See? I told you. They're all idiots,_ he had told Steve.

He had ended up calling the Howling Commandos brothers.

 

 

In the end, they put the day behind them and barely remember it once their reports are done and they get home. 

The word, truth be told, still feels strange in his mouth. It's easier to recognize it by feeling than by name, to know he's home because she's there.

"Bed early?" Natasha asks, turning the shower off. She's glistening with droplets of water that run down her skin, outlining each line of her body.

"Sounds like a plan," Bucky says, stepping out after her. 

He catches her smile in the mirror, a soft curve of her lips. It never fails to surprise him when she looks like this, perfectly content to have him around and let him come this close. He massages her scalp with a fluffy towel, working his way up until she leans into his touch. 

_I'm lucky,_ he thinks. The idea that he wouldn't have her by his side if he hadn't been through hell first softens his other past a little, pushing it further and further away until there's only this, her warmth. It's not always this easy. His ghosts prowl in the darkness, taking the shape of nightmares and pain that feels real enough to leave him gasping, nerves set on fire.

But here and now, she's humming as he combs her hair with his fingertips, wisps of fire in his hands. It occurs to him that perhaps this is another way to see it, that maybe he's paid his dues and earned this moment's happiness. He doubts it, but he wants to believe it at least this once, that someone, somewhere, has set things right and let him have this.

She takes his hand and leads him to bed, where they lie next to each other. He brushes his hand against her stomach, eliciting a shiver. A little mound of scar tissue rises to meet his fingertips. "I could have—" he starts.

"But you didn't, James." Natasha touches her lips to his forehead, kissing his frown. "And in a way, this got me closer to you. Closer to getting you back for good. What's a little pain in comparison?" she says, and he realizes that she's been doing the same, thinking of little barters along the way, hope as the last resort. They have given up so much, so damn much.

She holds him against her. "Tell me," she whispers, "about the time you and Steve were little troublemakers."

"You got that wrong," he says, pressing a smile against her skin. " _He_ was the troublemaker. I was the one who had to get him out of trouble."

He tells her of rides at Coney Island and rides back home in the back of freezer trucks. Before he knows it, sleep begins to cloud his mind little by little, but it doesn't seem to matter. Her heartbeats are a peaceful rhythm that follows him into dreams.


End file.
